


You're in my head

by everythingisconnected



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Canon Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, M/M, Making Out, Memory Loss, Mild Smut, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recovered Memories, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingisconnected/pseuds/everythingisconnected
Summary: Set during CACW. Bucky is alone in Bucharest, recovering from his traumatic experience of being the Winter Soldier. He's having nightmares and flashbacks, but not all of them end up being so bad. So why did he pull Steve out of that river? Maybe these memories can help him find out.





	You're in my head

**Author's Note:**

> _Can't keep your smile away when I'm asleep  
>  A song stuck on repeat_
> 
> _It's taking over slowly_  
>  All my thoughts, if only  
> I knew how to make you mine 
> 
> _You're in my head, you're in my head again_  
>  Can't keep you out, don't wanna hold you in  
> You're all around, you're underneath my skin 
> 
> _And if there's a cure, I'm not even sure I want it  
>  There's no better thing with which to fill my brain than you_

Bucky was used to sleeping restlessly, in discomfort.

As the Winter Soldier, he never dreamed. Sleep was rare and usually short-lived, unless he was put under. He’d sleep on a chair, or on the floor somewhere in a Hydra base, then the second he woke up he was being given orders for the next mission. He’d be hosed down - hadn’t had a warm shower since the 40s. 

This small, filthy flat was a luxury. A single mattress on the floor, with a thin blanket was the comfiest thing he’d slept with in years. The first few weeks had been fine; he’d gone to sleep, then woken up. Every so often, he’d have a brief flash of memory, and he’d write it down in his notebook. It was usually small things. 

Except now, he was starting to dream.

The dreams weren’t nice. They were of gritty hands, one flesh and one metal, wrapped around a woman’s throat. The fury that coursed through his body as the squeezed the life from her. How he felt nothing, not the slightest hint of regret or empathy, when her lifeless body fell to the ground.

Sometimes he’d wake up shaking so much he’d fall into a panic attack, except he didn’t know what that was. What was happening to him. He’d sweat and breath heavily and curl up into the tightest ball under his blanket, metal fingertips digging into his skin just to feel a familiar sensation. He was used to pain. He’d stay in bed for days on end, wondering what was wrong with him. Flashes of being strapped back in that chair, unable to move. The mouth guard shoved in place, the arc moving over his head. Any good memories he’d retained were stripped away in an instant, daggers of electricity shooting through his body as he was brainwashed back into the obedient soldier he was made to be.

Steve. That name gave him hope. The one he’d read about in the museum. The one who he’d seen on the bridge, who’d for just a moment, helped him remember. He held onto every single small memory his brain gave him of that man, scribbling it down in his notebook. 

One night he’d remembered on the helicarrier, extremely vividly, his fist smashing into the face of his best friend who he’d sworn to protect. All the shit he’d done to him as the Winter Soldier. That reminded him why Steve was never going to come looking for him. Why he didn’t deserve him at all. He was a monster.

That day he’d almost done it. It was so easy, to take that one step off the edge of the building and it’d all be over. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Death would be a release from the prison of his existence. Steve would never come back, he’d never stop having these memories hit him like a truck whenever he so much as breathed in the wrong direction. He deserved it, for all the people he’d killed. It was all him, it was all _his fault_.

But as he’d looked down at a car passing by, he was hit again. But by a different kind of memory. Him and Steve, as teens, in the back of his mother’s car. She was taking them to the beach, where they’d spend the day together in the sea. Except he’d had to drag Steve out of the sea almost the second he’d got in, he was shivering and Bucky was half convinced he’d got pneumonia. The rest of the day was spent with Steve wrapped up in blankets and towels, Bucky’s arms around him. Earlier, he’d spotted a nice-looking dame across the beach he’d fancied hitting on, but those thoughts were overshadowed by his need to protect his best friend. 

When they got home, Steve was instantly tucked into bed. He definitely wasn’t going near that sea again when it’s those temperatures, and Bucky would make sure of it. He’d stripped down and wrapped his arms around Steve’s middle, because sharing body heat was the best way to keep warm. Steve had let out the smallest, but happiest little sigh as he snuggled back into Bucky’s chest. It was the happiest he’d felt in weeks.

Without being aware of it, Bucky was down from the roof and curled back up under his blanket, tears blurring his vision and falling onto the pillow. He lay there for hours, clinging onto that memory, feeling the first, tiny shred of hope.

-

Weeks later and he was starting to feel slightly more human. Newspapers covered his windows, he only went outside wearing lots of layers of clothing and a hat, but the nightmares were becoming less frequent. Constantly paranoid someone was going to recognise him, Bucky would sometimes spend several days without eating, too scared to leave the safety of his flat. It was fine, he’d done it before, barely getting fed or looked after as the Winter Soldier. 

He’d spend his time doodling and writing in his notebook. Little sketches of Steve, of him on their sofa, him falling asleep. Bucky had watched that way too often to be normal. Sometimes writing down or drawing something would help him to remember other memories. They’d keep coming, just small little moments, and it’d keep his mood semi-stable for the rest of the day.

Some days he still couldn’t leave his bed without having a panic attack; he’d randomly hear a loud bang from outside and bolt upright, reaching for the knife under his pillow. When nothing happened, he’d flop back down under the blanket, burying himself in it and try to hold back tears. He’d never been this weak before, sometimes he wished there was a way he could just remove his emotions. Always had managed to be strong for Steve, look after him, but now he couldn’t even look after himself.

He’d long for any form of physical contact, but had resigned to the fact he’d never experience it. Any interest in dames he saw on the street was lost, he couldn’t find it in him to talk to them. It was too much energy. Who’d want to be with someone like him anyway, fucked up in the head with a metal arm and covered in scars?

Steve had always been there for him. He had a distinct memory of a skinny arm around his waist, head buried in his shoulder. 

It started to come back to him, as he lay still in bed. Soft kisses, skin on skin. Gasps, moans, hands clinging to each other.

Bucky had been teasing Steve about the lack of women he was pulling again. Steve had kept insisting that it didn’t matter, and that no woman would ever want him. Bucky had argued with him for 10 straight minutes.

“What’ya mean dames don’t want you?” Bucky had said, tucked up in the bed next to Steve’s. They’d pushed their single beds together.

“It’s obvious, Buck,” Steve said, pushing a hand through his hair. “All they ever see is you. Dames don’t want a guy so small they’re gonna step on him.”

“I don’t get it,” Bucky threw an arm over Steve’s slim shoulders. “You’re not trying, Stevie. Dames would be stupid not to want you.”

“Yeah, cos I have _so_ much going for me,” Steve sighed. “I’m small and way too skinny for a dame to fancy.”

“Steve, you’re a good-looking fella,” Bucky chimed. “You’re brave, bit stupid sometimes, but charming.”

Steve had been blushing like mad. “You really think that?”

Bucky nodded. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Buck,” Steve said cautiously. “I’ve never even kissed a dame before.”

“Stevie, you’re missing out!” Bucky laughed. “Kissing is beautiful, but there’s a way to it…”

“Go on Buck, tell me how many beautiful women you’ve kissed again, make me feel like a loser....”

“Steve, listen,” Bucky ruffled his hair. “I was gonna offer to show you. How to kiss a dame properly.”

Steve had frozen. “What?”

“You gotta know how, when she comes in for a kiss.”

“You want to kiss me?”

Bucky hadn’t thought about it at the time. “Just- just for, you know, practise.”

Steve had looked so nervous and taken aback it was almost as if he was going to pass out. “What if I’m bad?”

“I’ll show you, come on,” Bucky had turned to properly face him, hand on his cheek. “You gotta just-”

Before he’d known it, they were kissing, the feeling of Steve’s lips so vivid in his mind, the little desperate whines as he’d nibbled his lower lip and swiped it with his tongue. How he’d slowly lowered Steve down to the bed. Neither of them stopped, or looked like they planned on doing so. Bucky remembered his heart pounding in his chest, stomach filled with butterflies and pure thrill. Much more than he’d ever felt while kissing a dame. 

“She might want more,” he’d whispered into Steve’s neck. “Want me to show you?”

Steve had nodded enthusiastically, so Bucky took off both their clothes hurriedly. They landed in a pile on the floor of their bedroom, and they were kissing again, touching each other everywhere they could reach. 

It was the best orgasm Bucky had had in his life. Steve’s moans were definitely the hottest sound he’d heard. Except after, he’d damn near had an asthma attack from breathing so heavily. Bucky had cuddled him til he was breathing normally again, and they’d fallen asleep in each others arms.

He felt safe and loved. Steve cuddled up to him. But in the morning, they didn’t talk about it and carried on life as normal.

Bucky sighed, turning onto his back in bed. There were the tears again. He furiously pawed at his cheeks and eyes, trying to get rid of them. The feeling had hit him like a truck, a warm fuzzy feeling all over his body, a dull ache in his chest. 

So why did he pull Steve from that river? How did a few words break through 70 years of brainwashing?

It’d happened again, when the Howling Commandos were on a mission to destroy another Hydra base. They were camped out in the forest, two to a tent. Of course him and Steve had shared. It’d been simple, Steve was missing Peggy, and Bucky was horny. That was the only reason they’d chosen each other.

The only reason why Bucky had let Steve fuck him into their makeshift bed, not caring who heard. Why he’d let Steve pin him down with his new strength, kiss and bite at every inch of him. And he loved every damn minute of it. Being dominated by someone stronger than him, especially _Steve_ , who a few weeks ago couldn’t even lift an ant off the ground. 

Then there was the time when they were kids, he’d hold Steve’s hand around town to ‘protect him from bullies’. It’d become a habit, and they held hands everywhere they went. Eventually they got too old for it to be considered a friendly kids thing, and Bucky had been more disappointed than he should’ve been.

During cold winter nights, they’d cuddle in Steve’s single bed. Bucky would watch as Steve fell asleep, drifting off soon after to the sound of his gentle breathing.

Even after 70 years, mind being wiped over and over, one thing had always stuck with him. His love for Steve Rogers.

He might’ve not known why. His love for Steve was part of him not even Hydra could take away. It was an instinct, to protect Steve, to save him from harm. 

He’d been so stupid all that time, pretending he loved Steve platonically. That all the times they’d fucked or made love had just meant nothing. All those soft kisses were just him teaching Steve how to romance a woman. He’d fucking loved Steve this whole time, and never even noticed.

He’d fixated on that for the next few days. Then Steve turned up, people were looking for him. Everything was a mess, he was back to fighting and being on the run. No time to think.

And he’d forgot to write it down.

**Author's Note:**

> bucky is a precious boy and his trauma needs to be discussed more in canon!!!
> 
> sorry i can't let him be happy
> 
> neither will fucking marvel


End file.
